Mummy Dearest
by TenPointsFromGryffindor
Summary: Written for this prompt on the BBC Sherlock Kink Meme: "Mummy Holmes is a serial killer. Sherlock discovers this during his teen years. The reason Mummy is disappointed with Mycroft? She always thought he would be the one to figure out her secret because he was her pride and joy." Warnings for minor dismemberment and general creepiness, nothing graphic or violent.


**Disclaimer:** Sherlock BBC is not mine, nor do I make any profit off the following.

**Thanks: **Loony, my wonderful beta, and also the original prompter from the meme.

* * *

**Mummy Dearest**

There was a different feel to the house.

Sherlock hated it. He didn't trust instincts or feelings. His mind dealt solely in facts and the logical deductions he derived from them.

And yet, upon entering his family home he couldn't shake a niggling in the back of his mind – he wasn't supposed to be there.

It was quiet throughout the old house. The housekeeper and chef had Sundays free, Mycroft was at University and Mummy would most likely be at one of her Sunday functions.

Sherlock himself had forged Mummy's signature and taken leave from his boarding school to check on a long term experiment he'd been forced to leave at home. The cab fares had cost him his last two months allowance. There wasn't much he'd spend it on anyway, although he was considering taking up smoking.

Making his way up toward his bedroom-cum-lab, a muffled noise from the direction of the laundry caught his attention. Pausing on the stairs, he turned and went down to investigate the sound.

The laundry was an old room with flagstones that sloped to a drain, allowing the whole room to be flushed with water. Of course, the estate had upgraded since the house had been built and a modern sink, washing machine and dryer had been installed along one of the walls.

The first thing that hit him, the sense memory that he would recall well into his adult life, was the permeating smell of iron, thick and sweet in his nose, on his tongue as he reached the closed door. There was a clear sound of movement inside and his mind, his brilliant ever-working mind, supplied him with a large number of possible – though some highly improbable – situations that fit the available facts.

He ignored the fine hairs standing up on the back of his neck.

And as such, the sight that greeted him behind the swinging of the laundry door hadn't even occurred within his amazing range of possibilities.

"Oh no, dear," Mummy said, voice soothing and soft as she looked up at the sound of the door. She was wiping down the large table in the middle of the room, a chore that should have looked normal to Sherlock except for the fact he'd never seen Mummy clean a thing in his life.  
Although, perhaps it would be difficult to consider anything normal with freshly deceased human remains on the floor of one's laundry. Or rather, parts of human remains – he could clearly see two dismembered hands, a foot and a man's head. Absently, he couldn't help but consider all the data he could collect from the severed head – that one thought bouncing through the static silence that had replaced his usually chaotic mind.

"Sherlock, dear, this is all wrong. You've terrible timing, darling."

Suddenly, a lifetime of Sunday school and forced play dates, the infused smell of bleach in the wood of the laundry table, Mummy's approval of his dissections (after his school had called her in horror) and her refusal to let him play in the large old drains that ran from their house all slotted into place.

"Th-," he began, throat unexpectedly raw. His voice was gravelly and deep, completely unlike the strange uncontrollable tones it had been over the last few months, "This isn't the first."

"Oh sweetheart," she crooned again.

She'd made her way around the table by this point and put her hand softly on his cheek. Her thumb left a sticky streak of red when she stroked his sharpening cheekbones in a fond, motherly way. The contrast against his pale skin was striking, though Sherlock himself wouldn't notice that until later.

At that moment all of his brain was whirring, thoughts circling on his mother, eyes lost staring into her icy blue pupils.

"I don't –," he began his voice cracking sharply, not enough air behind it to continue, though what he would have said he wasn't sure.

Mummy smiled and it was sweet, but it was Holmesian – sharp, toothy and it curved her thin face awkwardly. Sherlock had never found it unsettling before.

"This was for Mycroft. He's such a clever boy, your brother, – of course you know that – I thought I'd do something to stimulate that head of his. It was for him to deduce, not you. I love you Sherlock, dear, but you are the younger. You have him to aspire to. He needs something to challenge him."

She took her hand away from his face, still smiling, and straightened up, roughly brushing down her apron with blood-stained hands.  
"So," she said as she turned back to the table, picking up the cloth again, "You promise not to spoil the surprise now, don't you, my dear boy?"

Sherlock must have nodded, or perhaps Mummy merely took his shocked silence as agreement.

"Off you go now, then. There must be something terribly important for you to do if you came all the way home," she said fondly, finishing with an amused and indulgent laugh that Sherlock had heard a thousand times before. It shook him.

Slowly, he closed the door. As soon as it was shut, he ran.

* * *

**Call Register:** _Three missed calls from DI Lestrade_

**From: DI Lestrade**  
Answer your phone, git.  
Triple homicide.  
All have an identical twin.  
-GL

"Lestrade, I believe your skills as a detective should have enabled you to deduce that it is, in fact, Mothers' Day," Sherlock spoke in lieu of a greeting when he finally answered the fourth call he'd received in the last twenty minutes.

"It's rude to keep Mummy waiting, Sherlock," The younger man glared at his brother – the fat git – and resisted the urge to stick his tongue out as the other man continued, "God knows you don't visit her enough as it is, you could at least stay away from work on Mother's Day."

Pulling his face away from his mobile, Sherlock couldn't help but snap back, "Well at least my work goes toward helping people rather than causing their country's economic collapse."

Mycroft heaved a long-suffering sigh and shook his head, infuriating Sherlock further with his self-perpetuated superiority.

"Now, now my dear boys," Mummy interrupted as she joined them at the table, nodding thanks to Mycroft as he poured her tea. "Don't fight over such petty matters."

Sherlock pouted and looked away, while Mycroft looked smug.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade's voice called from the phone, frustration lacing his tone.

He brought it back to his mouth.

"Yes, I'm here, Detective."

"Right, we need you on this case – it's right up your alley," the exhaustion was audible in Lestrade's voice, "Can we pick you up from your mother's?"

Sherlock looked across the table, resting the phone against his shoulder.

"Mummy, would you mind terribly if I went to look at a triple homicide? I'm sure Mycroft can keep you entertained for the rest of visiting hours."

Mummy smiled at her youngest son, that same sweet, sharp smile, and laughed softly as her voice tinged with fondness.

"By all means, darling."

Nodding at his mother and sparing a last sneer for his brother, Sherlock stood and swept from the room, overcoat flowing behind him.

"Very well, Lestrade. Send one of your officers to meet me at HM Prison Bronzefield."

* * *

**A/N: Hoping you all like it. Great prompt. Can't really describe just _how_ into the Sherlock BBC fandom I am right now... :) Although, my darling beta and I did find a problem with the character listing here on ff: no Mummy/Mrs Holmes :P Loony has provided me with the following 'classy rage' as she calls it (mostly because I'm too lazy to complain overly much about it).**

_**'...what? Why the hell is there no character designation for Mummy Holmes? This is an outrage! A scandal! He'll not be - oh, wait, wrong film. But, seriously. She's actually /something/ of a semi-important figure, in fanon at the very least. Sheesh. That's just an irritatingly annoying nervige Verärgerung. Yeah, that's right; I'm calling it names in GERMAN.'**_


End file.
